


War Boys Grown

by Spitshine



Series: Growing Up to War [2]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Blood Kink, Character/Cultural Study, Frotting, Homosocial Society, M/M, Mouth Sewn Shut, No Negotiation Whatsoever, Non-Penetrative Sex, Pain-Induced Euphoria, Patriarchy So Thick You Could Cut It With a Knife, Rites of Passage, Sacrilege, Scarification, War Boys, warrior culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 15:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4106176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spitshine/pseuds/Spitshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The Organic Mechanic cuts their mouths when it's time, when they start to muscle, but they suture and staple each other closed after. They all have bloody hands when they get their names, mouths half stitched.<i></i></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	War Boys Grown

**Author's Note:**

> It's marked "Underage" because I assume War Boys all die before they're eighteen, but they're adults in the eyes of their own society... or at least as grown as they're ever gonna get.

They've all seen it before, as pups, crowding unbidden into the shadowy corners of the long room, eyes wide and only half-comprehending as they watched their old mates begin their halflives.

Still, it's something new and unbelievable when it's happening to them.

The Organic Mechanic cuts their mouths when it's time, when they start to muscle, but they suture and staple each other closed after. They all have bloody hands when they get their names, mouths half stitched. They'll be silent til the stitches fall out of their own accord, and by then they'll know how to suit their names.

That's what they're told, anyway, Immortan Joe's booming voice falling down on them from way up high, echoing through ears already buzzing with blood loss. It's not the words they hear, anyway, it's the tone and the deep promise of Valhalla. Shed your stitches, learn your name, be a War Boy. Be awaited.

Awaited.

They kneel in two frayed rows in the dust and grime of the Mechanic's workshop, knee to knee with their mates, waiting with eyes locked as the Mechanic moves down, one pair at a time. They only touch each other. They only see each other, though they hear the rough noise of the Mechanic's blade slashing through flesh, the harsh grunts and yells of the freshly made War Boys, the proud screech of Immortan Joe as he bestows each new Boy with a name.

His whole attention is focused on the face across from him, hot between his hands as he stitches the chapped lips shut tight, the sweaty fingers grabbing his jaw, both needles plunging in time, the clod of the Mechanic's heavy tread as he steps from one pair to the next, the voice, the voice of Immortan Joe, the voice remaking them all. He's higher than he's even been, so focused he barely feels the slice through his cheeks until he hears the name, his name, crashing through the din.

“Nux!”

 _Nux_ , he thinks, _me_ , and grins, hot blood cascading down his throat. His mate brings the staple gun to his blazing cheek and he hears more than feels the thick staples clang into place, three on a side. He's never felt more complete or more alive than he does right now, his whole vision narrowed to the eyes across from him, huge and black in the white face.

The eyes are yanked away from him as the Organic Mechanic jerks his mate's head back. His hands shake when he holds the staple gun to his mate's face, waiting for the blood and the word. The slice comes first, gaping white for the smallest second before the red wells in and an immense shout rains from the sky.

“Tooth!”

 _Tooth_ , Nux thinks, and shakes with laughter even as the stitches pull tight and hot across his sealed mouth. He squeezes the dirty handle again, again, again, still racked with the delirious laughter that pours up and up and up from some deep place he'd never even guessed at having.

He notices vaguely the stapler being plucked from his hand but he doesn't care. The big eyes are his world again and he brings one hand up to the back of Tooth's head and shoves their foreheads together, noses smashing and blood smearing.

They are here. Named. War Boys. Awaited.

Together.

—

Nux's vision blackens and doesn't clear til much later when the sound of the skylights closing grates against his ears and wakes him. His podmate—Tooth, he thinks, Tooth now—clearly hauled him down here, Nux can see the trail of blood dotting the way to their bunk in the last of the light. War Boys have a bend in the tunnels where they belong, a space that was given on purpose rather than in negligence. War Boys grown get bunks that are theirs, theirs to share, driver and lancer.

Still, Nux knows, the teams of two will be halved and joined and halved again, but that is not now. That is not for a moon or two yet, depending on the tides of healing and skirmishes, and right now it's just him and Tooth. Him and Tooth and their new bunk in the soft, familiar blackness of the deep underground.

His old podmate, soon to be his lancer—Tooth, he reminds himself again, firmly, they are named, they are Boys grown, they are awaited—this is what he'd hoped for. Their pod had been together nine fat moons, the longest he'd been with any pup he can remember. He remembers being pinned to the dusty tunnel floors, sweat smudging their paint, turning clay and dirt to mud, and wondering if that meant they'd be War Boys grown soon.

It had. This is the beginning of his halflife. He tries to form his own name with his stapled lips, lost in the wonder of having so much _his_ , a name and a bed and a lancer, soon a wheel too. The “nnn” he can manage, the “uuu” fills his mouth with blood, the “kkss” a hopeless mumble. He swells with pride anyway, briefly, before the blood runs and Tooth reaches down to smear it across his chin.

Tooth doesn't say anything, of course, but he brings Nux's hand up to his own mouth and they sit like that, breathing raggedly through their noses, shaking fingers tracing the new topography of each other's faces.

Nux wishes, sudden and deep and desperate, that he could taste the blood on his own hands, on Tooth's smooth face. He moves his hands, soft and slow, to the back of Tooth's head and brings their mouths together. He doesn't know why. He can't bite like this.

But it feels right, rubbing their faces together, sutured lips and stapled cheeks and panting noses. This is the most delicate he's ever been with another pup—Boy—anyone—the kind of thing they can't ever mention aloud, can't ever do in the light of day. They'd never live it down. They'd be cast out into the salt flats, left to perish without the hope of Valhalla.

Here and now, in the enveloping darkness, Nux lets his fingers trail up and down Tooth's knobbly spine, doesn't protest when Tooth touches him just as soft and tender. Their hands reach waistbands at the same time and somehow their touches still don't turn harsh and unyielding. They unbutton, unbuckle, wriggle free until their pants get caught up in their boots.

Nux, fuck, he can barely stand the thought of not having all that skin pressed up together but he makes himself squirm down the bed, unlace and pull the heavy steel-toed boots from Tooth's feet, his own feet, before surging back up the narrow bunk, and now he's getting clumsy and frenzied, but he just can't bring himself to care. Not when their pants are finally shoved free, not when he lets Tooth turn him onto his back, not when Tooth is burying his sealed mouth in the crook of his shoulder and smearing blood everywhere. Not when nothing has ever felt more right than this, the hot hard lines of their cocks pressing together, hands gripping hips and grinding them impossibly closer with every thrust.

Even now, frantic with need, there's something soft about the way they touch each other, the way Nux spreads his legs unbidden and wraps his thighs tight around Tooth's scrawny hips, invites the other Boy's cock between his ass cheeks, slick with sweat and precome.

Their bodies squeeze so tight together that even their concave bellies touch, crushing Nux's throbbing dick between their rocking torsos. He arches up into that all-over touch, canting his hips, needing more, needing. He feels the hot spill of spunk underneath him and is suddenly complete, inside and out, comes hard between them with a muffled shout that strains the sutures to their limits.

 _Shiny_ , he thinks, sweaty and sticky and sated. _Chrome_ , and doesn't care if Immortan Joe smites him down in his bed for his desecration of the holy words.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are great, concrit is better.


End file.
